


In the Bleak Midwinter

by AlyKat



Series: Foolish Pride [1]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Building Relationship, Clint acts kinda like Brian Gamble in this for awhile, Clint's a major smartmouth jerk, Coulson's cold and kind of a dick, Disabled Character, First Kiss, General, I REGRET NOTHING, If you count being farsighted a disability, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Pre-Avengers Movie, Pre-Phase One movies, Romance, Slow Build, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Until they aren't, You know what happens when you assume right?, itty bitty bit of full on slash, mentions of horribly outdated technology and shows/movies...prepare your nostalgia feels people., mutual misunderstanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you get when you put a smart-mouthed, insubordinate archer in a cabin alone with his cold, no-nonsense handler, toss in a blizzard and maybe just a bit of that old familiar Christmas magic? A holiday tale of how Agent Coulson and Specialist Barton went from agent and asset to equals and maybe just a little something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in 1997, so Phil and Clint would be 35 and 26 respectfully, since I decided to give them their actor's actual ages and such. Though, I thought I saw once that the characters were supposed to be like 10 years younger than the actors playing them? I dunno...
> 
> Enjoy the story!

If anyone were to ask him how he planned to spend his Christmas that year, his answer most certainly would not have been to be trapped in a cabin safehouse with the most irritating, obnoxious, and insubordinate agent S.H.I.E.L.D had ever known. In fact, that wasn’t anything Senior Agent Phil Coulson would want at any given time, but most especially at Christmas. Not when he could be back home eating Chinese take-out and watching the new Christmas episode of ‘Friends’ (which had actually already aired, but thank God for programmable VCR’s) or maybe if he were really lucky he could have caught a red-eye to Chicago and made it back to his brother’s place in time for the holiday after all. Actually, take-out and a recorded episode of ‘Friends’ sounded like the better idea out of any of the choices.

Instead, he was stuck. Trapped. Literally.

The snow had been falling for hours and there was no end in sight. Honestly, he thought they could have made it back to base before the worst of it had hit, had it not been for that patch of ice that so rudely sprang up out of nowhere and sent the car into a ditch. They’d been lucky no one had been coming from the opposite direction when they’d hit the slick spot and crossed the dashed yellow middle line. Yeah, it’d been more than a few years since the last time Phil had driven in near blizzard conditions, so really he felt he couldn’t be blamed for maybe not having quite as much control over the vehicle as he’d thought he did.

Of course, because of their little incident, Phil had to hear about it every step of the way back to the safehouse. They had just left there not ten minutes prior to the mishap, both anxious to get back to base and hunker down the storm. There was no way they’d make it back to New York, not that night at least; flights arriving or departing from the Denver International Airport were no doubt canceled. Why the hell they were even sent to Silverthrone, Colorado in the first place was beyond them. Their intel had been shotty at best, total crap at worst. The contact never showed and that only served to put both agent and asset in bad moods. Phil didn’t like being stood up, and especially not by someone who was supposed to provide them with information. And Clint? Clint didn’t like being dragged out for a mission only to sit back and twiddle his thumbs out of pure boredom.

God what a shit-tastic way to start his holiday vacation time. The next time he saw Nick Fury, Phil was going to make sure the man paid. Christmas was the only time Phil ever really tried to take time off, to use up some of that vacation time he keeps racking up. And now he was having to spend his precious time off trapped in the Rockies with Clint Barton.

With a heavy sigh, he kicked the door to the cabin closed behind him, letting his bags fall to the floor next to his feet. Clint had already thrown his duffle down onto the couch, the case for his bow and quiver propped carefully in the corner. There was still a few small red embers trying to flicker back to life in the fireplace hearth and the light to the kitchen was still shining brightly into the darkened living room. Barton having forgotten to turn it off when they’d left the first time.

“Bet you’re glad I forgot to toss the eggs and milk, now, huh?”

Head lifting and cockles bristling a bit at the sarcastic and flippant tone directed to him from the younger man, Coulson moved to rekindle the fire. The cabin was, of course, equipped with electricity and a furnace, but there was something about wood crackling and popping in the stone fireplace that calmed the man. Right then, he needed all the calm vibes he could get. Opting to ignore the archer, Coulson pulled pieces of old newspaper from the kindling basket and stuffed them in between the larger pieces of firewood. He was just starting for the lighter when the voice of his travel companion cut through the air once more.

“Whoa! Nu-uh! You light that thing up again and you automatically relinquish the right to the bedroom. I put up with breathing that shit for the past two days, and woke up with a headache from the smell each morning. I’m turning the furnace on. Don’t like it, you sleep on the couch and breathe it.”

Cold blue eyes lifted from where they’d been focused and leveled the other man with their unamused stare. There was no way on God’s green earth that Coulson was going to give up the only bedroom in the cabin, and he especially was not going to be sleeping on the couch. He’d slept on that damn thing before in years past and it wasn’t going to happen again. The couch was for the subordinate; the warm, comfortable bed upstairs for the agent in charge.

“Last I checked, you didn’t get to give orders, Specialist.”

“Yeah, well, last I checked you lighting that fireplace in full knowledge that the smell of burning wood gives me a headache the size of fucking Texas is considered an abuse of power and punishment for abuse of power is clearly outlined in Chapter 2, paragraph 67, subsection 3 of the S.H.I.E.L.D handbook. Stating: _Any senior agent who performs an action that directly impacts their subordinate’s rights against the subordinate’s expressed will, can and will be subjected to a thorough investigation and placed on probationary leave until a verdict of the alleged abuse of power is decided upon_.”

It did not surprise Coulson in the least that Barton would have that memorized, or that the man would have the entire S.H.I.E.L.D handbook memorized (or at least the sections he knew he might need in order to defend himself against charges). Despite popular belief, Clint Barton was not just some dumb hick from Iowa who’d run off and joined the circus when he was still just barely a teenager. He was smart, incredibly so. His aptitude tests hadn’t shown that he was genius smart, but his IQ certainly was in one of the higher quadrants, particularly in mathematics and reading comprehension.

Sitting back on his heels, Coulson continued to simply stare the man down. It was a look that was feared by many, mostly the junior agents who were still wet enough behind the ears to believe the scuttlebutt that went around S.H.I.E.L.D regarding the infamous Agent Coulson. Barton, he’d found, was immune to the glare. If anything, the archer could give a blank stare back that rivaled the senior agent’s. The man’s ‘fuck off and die’ attitude and glare to match had become the source of many handler’s frustrations and ultimately resulted in their tossing the sniper back into the pool for someone else to deal with the next time out. Coulson had the unpleasant honor of being the agent who had handled the man the longest: a whole five months and seventeen days. To be fair, though, the two rarely actually worked together as a team. Coulson would find Barton missions, call him into his office for a briefing, send him off with a senior field agent, and then be there waiting to debrief him upon the team’s return.

It was only because he was required to do a field evaluation of Barton that Coulson was even on the mission to begin with.

With a slightly sadistic mild smirk, Coulson gave a hardly noticeable shrug of the shoulders and moved to stand back up. Stepping past Barton, he picked his bags up from where he’d dropped them on the floor and started for the stairs. Slinging his laptop case over his shoulder, the agent made his way to the small second floor.

“Suit yourself. Just remember, heat rises. I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable up here.” His lips pressed together tightly, the corners of his mouth barely flickering up, Coulson gave a small nod to his aggravating companion. Without another word, he moved up the flight of stairs and made sure to shut the door to the bedroom loud enough to be heard in the living room below.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sitting on his bed staring down at his reports, Coulson heaved a heavy sigh. The air surrounding him was thick and heavy making it nearly impossible to get a decent breath in. Sweat was beading up along his hairline and making the collar of his light blue dress shirt stick to his neck uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure when it had gotten so ungodly warm in his room, but he knew one thing was for certain, the archer staying the floor below him was to blame. 

He wasn’t going to let other man win. He was an ex-Army Ranger, trained to withstand all forms of torture. He could be tied to a chair, beaten, starved, and beaten again and he wouldn’t crack. There was a reason there were rumors about him being inhuman or an android of some kind. So if Barton thought he could flush the man out with cranking the furnace up to what had to be the highest setting possible (which, the bill for doing so was definitely going to be coming out of the younger man’s pay later) then clearly he was mistaken. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His foot came off the last step, bare toes connecting with the cold wooden floor of the living room. A wall of cool air hit him like a ton of bricks and sent a chill lightning down his spine while goosebumps sprang up along his bare arms. The sleeves of his dress shirt had been rolled up to his elbows and the top three buttons undone and if anyone asked he’d been wearing that damn shirt the entire time he was up there, because there was no way he’d given Barton the satisfaction in knowing he’d made Coulson uncomfortable enough to strip out of the dress shirt, shoes and socks. Even if he totally had removed the shirt for the last hour he’d sat up there. He would never admit to it. 

Lungs filling up with blessed cool air, Coulson paused for just a moment to bask in the chilliness of the room. Which, no doubt, had also been done on purpose. A look to his left revealed a bundle of blankets wrapped up around Barton, the man’s dark blond (very light brown?) sticking up in all sorts of directions from under it. The archer’s hands were free from the twisted flannel fabric, one fisted to prop his head up while the other idly held the TV remote in his hand, thumb pressing and holding down on the channel button. A kaleidoscope of images flashed over the television screen, none lasting long enough for anyone to gage what program they could possibly be --not even someone who had near impossible vision like Barton boasted of having so often could see what the programs were. 

When those blue-green eyes turned their attention from the TV back to him, a smirk reminiscent of the one Coulson had given hours before spread openly on the archer’s face, he knew the man had cranked the heat up on purpose...and from the feel of the living room, he’d closed off all the vents on the lower level just out of spite. The wind was still billowing outside around the cabin, snow plastering itself against the window, caking into the corners of the panes and sneaking in through cracks where it could. Yet there sat the sniper, looking just as comfortable as could be.

“Oh hey, _Agent_. Look at you, lookin’ all flushed and debauched. Been havin’ fun upstairs? It’s warm enough for ya up there, right? Wouldn’t want you gettin’ cold or anything.” The malevolent tone betrayed the wide-eyed innocence of the man’s young face. 

Coulson stared back at the man, schooling is facial features so as not give away the annoyance, frustration, and all around urge to strangle the sniper, he was feeling inside. He did well to control the tick the corner of his right eye itched to give and even kept his breathing even. The latter being a major accomplishment as it wasn’t the first time he’d managed to do it while working with this man. No, overgrown five year old fit the description of him better. There was very, very little about Barton that was in any form related to being an adult.  
Head tilting to the side slightly, the senior agent moved slowly but purposely through the living room on his way to the kitchen. He wasn’t going to let Barton think he’d succeeded in rumpling him. That just wasn’t going to happen.

“It is, as a matter of fact. Your concern for my well being and comfort is appreciated.” With a tight lipped smile that didn’t come close to making it to his blue eyes, Coulson moved into the kitchen, searching out something he could fix quickly and sit down to eat. He would use the guise of sitting at the table –like any civilized and well-mannered person did—to cover for the fact he wasn’t quite ready to go back up into that make shift hell Barton was trying to create. 

His back was to the kitchen archway when he felt eyes on him, an unnerving stare that sent the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He hadn’t heard the sniper get up off the couch, which only proved just how dangerous the man could be. Coulson had heard stories from other handlers about the man’s ability to move as silent as a shadow. Of course, he’d also heard those same handlers how Barton was clearly the spawn of Satan; that the man never slept—that he just hid out in a corner and stared holes into everyone, and how he’d even attacked one of his former handlers for no reason what so ever. How much of any of that was true, Coulson didn’t know, but from the uneasy feeling he was starting to get from Barton’s stare, he was willing to give a little credence to at least a couple of those claims. 

“There’s still some pizza in the fridge.”

Coulson almost cringes at that tone. It’s different from the smug arrogance of before. This tone was borderline friendly, comfortable even, as if maybe the man was actually trying to be nice by suggesting the disgusting pizza still in the refrigerator. Steeling himself, Coulson waited just a breath before turning to glance nonchalantly over his shoulder at the archer, an eyebrow just barely quirked. That pizza was the left over from their first night there, Barton having insisted on ordering it…and then refused to share any, despite there being far too much for just one person. 

“Did you any of the things I’d asked you to do before we left? Dispose of items in the refrigerator? Apparently not. Turn off the kitchen light? Judging by the fact it was still on when we returned I’m assuming no. At least you had the sense to make sure the fire was at least most of the way out.” His own tone was cold and chiding. He wanted it known that the man’s blatant disregard for orders was something he did not approve of. Though, he honestly wasn’t expecting the flash of hurt that went through the archer’s eyes just a split second before his stance changed.

He watched as the other man shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and moved straight for the refrigerator. The guards and walls were safely intact, blocking people off from Barton and putting up the glaring red flags the man was so well known for. There were reasons no handlers wanted to be with the man for very long. In the four years the sniper had been with S.H.I.E.L.D., he had gone through ten separate official handlers and God only knew how many temporary ones. Yet for whatever reasons, the director hadn’t yet seen fit to cut their losses and just dump the sniper back out onto the streets where they’d found him to begin with. Yes, the man was no doubt incredible at what he did, but really there had to be less insubordinate snipers in the world…and ones who didn’t insist upon using such antiquated weaponry. 

“If I’d thrown out everything, we’d starve to death, _Sir_.”

“I have MRE’s in my bag. I’d survive. Don’t worry, we’d send a nice card of condolence to any loved ones you may leave behind.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Coulson wanted to reach out and pull them right back in again. He knew Barton’s file, he knew that the man didn’t have any family to speak of, hell he didn’t even have an emergency contact or insurance beneficiary listed anywhere. An apology formed on the tip of his tongue, one he knew he should voice, but that he kept silent instead. Even after seeing the brief stutter to Barton’s step, the way the man’s shoulders pulled back before quickly settling down into his usual ‘fuck off and die’ defensive posture. 

“Yeah well, looks like you’re stuck with me.” 

Coulson tried not to flinch at the cold and almost dejected tone in Barton’s voice. Yeah, no one ever claimed Phil Coulson to be a nice guy. Keeping his features in check, the agent watched as his asset moved from investigating the refrigerator to scoping out the rest of the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what the man was looking for, his movements seemed too random to discern any pattern or reason behind them. 

“Ya know…there’s the stuff here...could totally make chocolate chip cookies.”  
The sudden proclamation and almost hopeful tone to the archer’s voice pulled Coulson from his wonderings. So that was what he’d been looking around in cupboards and cabinets for? The ingredients for cookies? It was more surprising than it probably should have been and yet, strangely suiting given the fact it was the day before Christmas. Even Phil had grown up with the tradition of having a house filled with the warmth and scent of delicious cookies baking and cooling on the counter. 

“We are not making cookies, Barton.”

A cupboard door closed a bit harsher than it possibly should have, the sniper turning to cast an indignant stare at his handler. “Why not?” The cold steel blue his eyes turned did nothing to intimidate Coulson, however, and the pair held their silent stare-down for a moment longer until Barton’s eyes rolled and a huff of aggravation fell from his lips. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll make cookies then. Screw you.”

Arm crossing over his chest, Phil’s eyebrow lifted in mild amusement. “You mean to tell me you actually know how to make cookies?”  
The archer looked anything but domestic. His blond-brown hair was always spiked up in all different directions –which given that seemed to be the style most teens and twenty-something’s males wore their hair those days; it wasn’t that much of a surprise. A single small gold hoop still hung from the twenty-six-year-olds left ear—blatantly going against regulations and not caring in the least. Black also seemed to be the man’s wardrobe selection of choice: black cargo pants, black jeans, black shirts, black biker boots that were only ever laced and tied half-way up, a black leather biker jacket. If it was a dark article of clothing, Barton owned it. That, on top of his general glare he gave to most everyone he met, did not in any form scream a man whom knew his way around a kitchen let alone how to bake. 

Head lifting from where he’d been digging out the flour, Barton gave a short nod and shoulder shrug. “Yeah. What? Don’t you?”  
There was a pause as he stared the older man down, waiting for Coulson to roll his eyes and announce that yes, of course he knew how to bake cookies, what kind of idiot didn’t know how to? Except, the words never left the agent’s mouth. His eyes never rolled, but the blank expression did little to hide the way his eyes revealed that no, actually, he didn’t know how to make cookies. It wasn’t something he was ever taught as a child. He was always ushered out of the kitchen whenever his mother or grandmother had been cooking or baking, always too small to be of any help to them and usually being more of a bother than anything else. 

Barton’s jaw dropped and his brows shot up to his hairline in surprise. “Holy shit. You don’t do you? Jesus Christ, Coulson! How can you not know how to make cookies? You live alone! You should totally...” His voice trailed off as realization suddenly struck his face. “Fuck. Do you even have your own place? I’ve never seen you leave...”

Phil bristled, his back straightening as he squared his jaw. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d swear there’d been a hint of curious sympathy in the archer’s voice at the realization he’d never seen Coulson leaving base. It was true, he didn’t have a place of his own outside of S.H.I.E.L.D barracks. He’d had an apartment for a couple of years, but after realizing he was spending money on a place he rarely spent more than a few hours at a week, he’d given it up and moved back into senior agent’s quarters on base. It wasn’t so terrible, but it wasn’t exactly homey either. Of course, he wasn’t about to admit that to Barton. Instead, he kept his posture that of a man in charge and not willing to take any shit from a smart-mouthed punk like Barton.

“The same could be said about you, Specialist.” He replied neither features nor eyes giving anything away. Not even when the other turned his attention back to his handler. In the course of seconds, the younger man’s mood had changed again, his eyes darkening as they narrowed. 

“...I am an _agent_ , now, you know.”

“ _Junior_ agent, Barton.” His voice was level and cool as he corrected the sniper. It was true that Barton had been signed on as nothing more than a sniper, a specialist in that particular field. Of course, it was also true, Coulson knew because he’d read the man’s file enough times, that he had taken it upon himself to work through the training and paperwork required to become a full fledge agent at last. It wasn’t an easy task to accomplish –especially given the obstacles Barton had overcome in order to pass the testing—so he knew he really shouldn’t give the man quite as hard of a time as he was. Still, he felt having that distinction between junior agent and regular agent should be made.

He hadn’t, however, been quite prepared for what was said next. For the snort of an unamused chuckle as Barton turned his attention back to the ingredients already laid out on the counter, left hand flexing as if wrapping around a bow that wasn’t there. The man’s voice was softer, edged with an emotion Coulson wasn’t quite sure how to place. “Pfft. So the rumors are true then, huh? Nothing really is ever good enough for you.”

Glancing back over his shoulder at Phil, Barton stared him down for a moment, jaw set and eyes cold before he shook his head. A few choice words and muttered phrases left his lips as he looked back at the counter, his hands shoving himself away from the flour, eggs and sugars. “Forget it. Fuck you, Coulson. I’m goin’ to take a shower. Enjoy your fucking MREs.”

Coulson watched in confusion as the archer stormed from the kitchen, pausing in the living room just long enough to grab his ratty old duffle before he took off up the stairs. 

What the fuck had just happened?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time the water in the upstairs bathroom shut off, Coulson had laid out a decent enough spread on the table, had put away the eggs Barton had left on the counter, and found the only radio station that seemed to be picked up in the godforsaken mountains. The violins, cellos, and piano filtered through the air, the melody of gentle Christmas hymns filling the kitchen and caused the man to hum along, his mind drifting back to days gone by. 

He thought back on Christmases spent growing up, listening to his older brother’s complain about having to go out and shovel the driveway and sidewalks, not just of their home but also that of their elderly neighbors. He thought about his younger sisters chasing each other through the house and ultimately destroying whatever he’d been working on. He’d known better than to pitch a fit whenever they ruined one of his models or ripped pages from a comic; any time he’d gone to his parents about it, he was somehow the one who was scolded instead. There’d been days he would wiggle himself into the corner behind the Christmas tree and just stay sitting back there, watching the rest of his family bustle about. 

The thoughts of his childhood faded like a dream when he heard the socked feet come padding in from the living room once again and pause just inside the doorway. Lifting his eyes from where he’d been setting the last pieces of silverware, Phil felt as if the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. For a brief moment he was afraid someone had managed to sneak into the cabin without his knowledge. He found it more than just a bit impossible to believe that the man standing before him was in fact Clint Barton; his hair darkened from the shower and hanging down just past his eyebrows, the gold hoop missing from his ear, white socks on his feet --the toes of which just barely poking out from under the cuffs of light grey sweatpants—and a blue flannel shirt a size or two too large hung off his lithe frame. What surprised him most of all though, the piece he couldn’t tear his eyes away from no matter how hard he tried, was the thin silver frames of a pair of glasses sitting atop the archer’s nose. 

Phil hadn’t even realized he’d been staring until Barton shouldered past him on the way to the fridge for the milk. Blinking quickly to clear his mind –not that it was ever going to happen now—he cleared his throat and motioned to the table. It wasn’t anything spectacular, some pan fried hamburger patties, sliced and cooked potatoes and the single can of corn that had been in a cupboard, but it was at least better than the Meals-Ready-to-Eat he really did have stashed in his backpack. 

“I made burgers and as close to fries as I could.” Phil’s voice was even as ever, but there was a certain timbre to it that held an unspoken apology for his previous actions.

Blue-green eyes glanced to the table, a brow arching under wet bangs. He wasn’t exactly sure what kind of a reaction he was expecting from Barton, but he was honestly a bit glad when the man gave a slight nod and moved to set his glass of milk down at one of the two places perfectly set. Phil was silent as he grabbed a glass of water for himself, stealing a glance over his shoulder to Barton who sat stock still at the table, glaring the food down as if it had done something to personally offend him. He’d seen that look a number of times before, during briefings and while traveling. It was the look so many others had written about in the archer’s file stating it unnerved them and honestly made them fear for their lives just a little bit. 

It was a rather unnerving glare the man was giving to the plate in front of him, yet something about the distance in Barton’s eyes told Coulson maybe there wasn’t quite as much to fear about it as the others had made it seem. Setting his glass down at his place, he carefully slid into his chair and nodded towards the food. 

“Help yourself, Barton. Just because I cooked doesn’t mean I’m going to serve it to you, too.” 

Clint’s eyes snapped up at that, blinking at Coulson quietly, and just like that the look of pure hatred was gone. The younger man’s face softened, no longer glaring intensely at nothing in particular, and instead just stared silently at his handler, watching him carefully as if not quite sure how to react. There was a hesitance to the twenty-six-year old that hadn’t been there before, one that suddenly made the archer appear more like a skittish child than a well trained sniper. 

It was Barton who broke eye contact first. He gave a slight nod as he reached to put a hamburger patty on his plate, followed by the potatoes and corn. Eyes searching the table, the archer frowned and Coulson watched as the man leaned back in his chair, arm stretched out behind him to grasp the handle to the refrigerator. If the side of his shirt edged up to show off a small expanse of pale white skin, Coulson most certainly didn’t notice. It was amusing though, to watch the archer stretch and contort himself until he was able to wrap his fingers around the near empty ketchup bottle on the shelf, all to avoid having to get up out of his chair again. 

Looking back down to his own plate, Phil covered the small amused smile he was trying to hide with a piece of potato. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched while Barton shook and pounded the bottle of ketchup, covering the hamburger and potatoes in the thick red goop. Covered. The archer seemed hell bent on making sure every last drop was on his plate, pausing only briefly to look up suddenly, his eyes landing on Phil’s plate for a moment before looking up to his face. Holding the bottle up, he gave a little shrug. 

“Want some? Still a little left in there.” 

“No. That’s fine. You can…have the rest.” Coulson could feel his stomach roil at the thought of anyone liking ketchup that much. Worse when he watched Barton shove a forkful of covered potatoes into his mouth and chew happily. 

Phil forced his own food back down with a few gulps of water before focusing back on his meal. The pair sat silently eating, neither paying much attention to the other and yet consciously aware of the fact a tension still hung in the air between them. Glancing up as light reflected off Barton’s glasses, Coulson found himself once again transfixed by them. 

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” He finally said, forcing himself to look back down to his plate when the other lifted his own head. “I thought you had perfect eye sight.”

Barton shook his head, eyes lowering as he shoveled another forkful into his mouth. “I see better from a distance, Sir.”  
Coulson was quiet for a moment as he mulled over those words. He knew that the man could hit any target placed at any distance in front of, beside, or even behind him, so it what he said didn’t make any sense. Unless…

“You have hyperopia.” It was a statement, not a question. When the archer slowly lifted his head, his bangs falling to the side slightly at the tilt, Coulson continued. “Farsightedness. You have trouble seeing things directly in front of you but you can see what’s in the distance perfectly.” 

His shoulders shrugged and he turned his attention back to his food, obviously not really up to talking about it or anything at the moment. “Guess that’s what they call it.”

“Why isn’t it mentioned in your file?”

Another shrug. “Nobody asked.”

Coulson sat wordlessly, his own head tilted in thought. It made sense that no one would question the man about it. No one probably thought twice about even considering it. All they saw was a man who could hit a pinhead target from across the length of an Olympic sized pool; they didn’t bother to wonder if he could see the blue numbers along the edge of the wall directly in front of him. Yet, Coulson had seen the archer just the day before curl up into the corner of the couch with a book in his hands and silently set about reading, and he hadn’t been wearing glasses then. 

“What made you decide to put them on now?”

Once again Barton lifted his eyes, looking over the top of the frames and through dark lashes that were sinfully long for a man. Not that Phil noticed something like that. 

“Lost a contact lens in the shower, Sir. Didn’t have a choice.” 

“Didn’t you bring any others with you?”

A fork clanked against a plate, Barton’s shoulders squaring defensively as he glowered the older agent down. The look was a stark difference from the previous glare the archer had been giving when he first sat down at the table. This one had the potency behind it, the coldness that told Coulson the man had had about enough questions—no matter how innocent they were. 

“Is this a debriefing, Sir? Do you need to know what I thought about while jacking off in the shower too?”

“Only if you think it’s something I should be made aware of.” 

“Oh I think you’d loved to be made aware of it, Sir.”

“Then please, enlighten me, Specialist.”

His reply had been so automatic and so quick that it even surprised himself a bit. It wasn’t often he snarked back when a junior agent mouthed-off at him. Usually he stared the agent down until they backed off and eventually apologized. Yet for whatever reason, he found himself mouthing-off right back at Barton. 

Blue eyes locked with blue eyes, Coulson watched with intrigue as a faint pink began to creep up from under Barton’s collar and over the tips of his ears. Had he actually succeeded in embarrassing the archer with that remark? He didn’t think it possible. Of course, for a moment he’d also feared he’d made the man angry again. He half expected Barton to shove away from the table and go storming back into the living room like a petulant child. So it surprised him when instead, he ducked his head once more, the corners of those blue-greens began to crinkle just slightly while lips were pressed tightly closed and sucked in between teeth, as if trying to force back an amused smile. 

…he’d made Barton _smile_? 

Something was seriously wrong there. Coulson _never_ made any agents smile! Not unless he praised them for a job well done. This was something totally different though. There’d been no praise given, no verbal pat on the back for a job well done. There had only been a slip of the tongue that resulted in him firing snark right back at Barton. Hell, it could have even been considered banter if you squinted hard enough. 

“You’re a dick. Ya know that, Agent Coulson?”

There was no malice in the archer’s voice when he spoke, no biting harsh sarcasm, but instead a lightness, as if a weight was slowly starting to lift off his shoulders and he could begin to relax even if just a little. Phil felt the corners of his own mouth twitch up, a small ghost of a smile playing on his face as he reached for his glass of water. 

“I’ve been called much worse than that, believe me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The wind continued to whip outside, the snow falling heavier than it had been earlier that afternoon. Beyond the white covered windows was a world of darkness where trees groaned and swayed under the weight of the heavy snow and wind. Every so often one poor old, weak Evergreen would give a pathetic and helpless groan just before a snap echoed through the air and it or part of it would come crashing to the ground. It was a beautiful disaster out there to be sure. 

Sitting safe in his second floor bedroom, Phil once again set about going over files and contact information, hoping to find out what could have gone wrong. It was supposed to be a simple milk run of a mission and yet, it had fallen through. It didn’t make sense and that bothered Phil. He didn’t like things that didn’t make sense. Which of course, led his mind to think about the man perched on the couch in the living room one floor below. 

At least the archer had turned the furnace down and reopened the vents downstairs so it was no longer blistering hot upstairs. 

There was something about that man though that almost fascinated Coulson. He’d read Barton’s file hundreds of times: _insubordinate, problems with authority, mouthy, trouble, instigator, unprofessional conduct, conduct unbecoming of an S.H.I.E.L.D operative,_ and the most memorable from Agent Jareau _a royal pain in mine and the rest of the organizations ass._ While he believed most of that, there was something eating at him that wondered maybe, just _maybe_ , the archer was a bit misunderstood? Coulson knew from the file that Barton’s life had not been the easiest walk in the park; an abusive drunk for a father, an orphanage and foster care stint for years after his parents died, an older brother who alternated between caring for and beating on him (which, Phil thought, sounded about right for an older brother…his older brother’s sure seemed to perfect that act growing up). Then there’d been the circus and while Phil knew little about that time in the archer’s life, he knew enough that it was clear the experience had done little to help with Barton’s self-esteem and troubled mind. 

When word went out that S.H.I.E.L.D was interested in bringing the then twenty-two year old in, Clint was already wrapped up in a life he didn’t want and had wanted to try to start again. It was Coulson’s understanding though, that the agent who had captured and brought the young man in had done nothing to pose a good impression. Agent Menendez had caused Barton to close himself off to anyone who approached, and the list of handler’s who couldn’t _handle_ him had just continued to grow from there on out. Few, if any, had given the archer a chance. 

_A chance…_

Phil’s mind went into overdrive as he thought back over the past few days he’d spent alone with Barton. He’d been stand-offish, rude, disobeyed orders, sure, but there had been something else there that Phil recognized all too well. It had all been cries for attention. To be seen and maybe if he acted up enough someone would grow tired of him and finally give him the chance to prove himself he’d been hoping for. It was why he’d taken it upon himself to try and become a full agent. No one on the outside had ever wanted to give him a chance, and now on the inside it was much of the same. God he felt like such a jackass! 

Shoving the files and papers back into his laptop case, Coulson swung his feet off the bed and made a start for the door. His hand was on the knob when the groan of a tree just outside the cabin filled the air. He paused, frozen in place as the wind picked up, whirling angrily around the old Pine before the tell tale _SNAP_ split through the air followed by a crash that sent the windows rattling. The lights didn’t even bother to flicker before blinking out, the whirl of the furnace shutting off whining through the vents. All was deathly silent for a moment. Even the cry of the wind had stilled. Taking a deep breath, Phil slowly opened the door and carefully stepped out into the pitch black hall. He’d only taken a couple of steps when his foot connected with the banister and he’d let out a small yelp of hurt and surprise.

“Sir?”

“…I’m alright, Barton.” Phil sighed heavily, grumbling under his breath as his hand tightly held the railing and he carefully started down the stairs. The radio in the kitchen was still playing gentle classical arrangements of Christmas hymns while the rest of the cabin lie still in darkness. Battery backup for the radio in case of extreme emergencies; made sense. 

Socked foot stepping out cautiously, he pretended not to give a slightly startled gasp as a hand wrapped around his arm and held him firm in place for a moment. 

“Easy there, Sir. Last step’s a doozy.” 

In the darkness it was impossible to see just how close Barton was to him, but the warmth of a body suddenly in his space, a ghost of a breath against his cheek told him they were closer together than they should be. Yet neither made any immediate attempt to move. It wasn’t until his eyes adjusted a bit more that Coulson cleared his throat and gave a short nod, putting his foot on the last step and moving away from the archer’s hold. 

“Coming to check on me, Barton?”

A snort of half laughter drifted to the air. “Pft! Keep dreamin’. Was on my way up to take a leak, guess I’ll hafta hold it for awhile longer yet though.”

“So eloquent with your words. Perhaps you should have considered becoming a motivational speaker or writer.”

Another half laugh came from the archer and Phil found himself smiling into the darkness. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound, if not a bit too underused, and it made something in the agent itch to hear it again. It wasn’t any major secret that Phil was attracted to other men, it just wasn’t brought up or mentioned much; and if the rumors about Barton were true, then the archer was much more likely to take a mister to bed as opposed to a mistress. Not that it mattered any to Phil; it wasn’t like he stood a chance with Barton and even less of one now that the man was his subordinate. Still, the urge to hear the man laugh again coiled itself in his stomach and made itself right at home there. 

“You’ve seen my reports, Sir. Don’t think you really want me writing stories.”

“You’re right; I have seen your reports, which just further backs my belief that you’d have no problem writing fiction. You practice enough of it after each mission.”

Silence hung in the air again, thick and heavy and for the second time that night Coulson feared he’d upset the man. He wasn’t out to try to upset him, but it seemed to happen quite a bit. He was about to open his mouth to change the subject when a hand fumbled against his chest before landing on his shoulder. 

“Did you seriously just make a _joke_? I didn’t think it was possible for androids to make jokes.”

His breath was caught in his chest for a moment as the heat from Barton’s hand soaked through his light sweater. Forcing himself to control his breathing and composure, Phil gave a slight smirk. 

“You’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

“Heh…no offence Sir, but I seriously doubt that.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The living room was dark and quiet save for the gentle music still playing (music that was driving Barton up a wall apparently, but since it was better than pure silence the man hadn’t made any move to turn it off). Phil sat curled up in a chair, his sweat pant clad legs pulled up under him while his head lulled to the side, eyes dropping shut in the comfortable quiet. He wasn’t aware of the chill creeping in since the power shorted, even if it had been over an hour ago, at least not until he heard the subtle sniffle from the couch. The sound of a cold nose.

Blinking the bored sleep from his eyes, Phil unfolded himself from the chair, a quiet groan escaping his lips as circulation went back through his legs. Thirty-five years old and his body sometimes made him feel a good twenty years older than he was. His eyes finally having adjusted to the dark enough for him to move around easier, he padded his way to the fireplace, hand feeling across the mantle for the lighter. 

“Seriously, Sir. Please don’t light that.”

“I’m sorry, Barton, but it’s either light the fireplace or we both freeze during the night.” Freezing to death really did not appeal to Coulson in the least. His fingers had just flicked over the gear, a small flickering yellow and orange flame appearing from the top of the Bic lighter, when a warm body sidled down next to him and a scratchy blanket draped over his shoulder. 

“I will deny to my dying day that I am willing to cuddle in order to stay warm, if it means you put that lighter down and don’t start that fire.”

“Barton. Body heat and a blanket alone are not going to keep us warm if we fall asleep. I have extra strength Tylenol in my bag and I apologize in advance for any discomfort you experience from the smell, but having a fire going will keep us warmer in the long run.”

Clint huffed softly, his face twisted in displeasure as Coulson leaned forward to ignite the pieces of newspaper still tucked among the kindling. It took a few tries but before too long a decent little flame was starting to spread and lap at the logs. The bitter scent of burning oak filled the air around them as an orange glow wrapped around them. Coulson felt more than he saw Barton’s body tense, the man barely willing to take a breath. It was a rather overpowering smell when the logs first started to smolder, the smoke twisting and dancing its way up the chimney, and even Phil admitted that the scent bothered him a little at first too. 

When the archer failed to relax after a few moments though, the older agent turned his head and frowned. Clint’s expression was pinched, his eyes narrowed and watering. Phil watched the man’s jaw clench and release as he swallowed hard. His frown deepening, Coulson moved to scoot until his back was pressed against the couch. A hand reaching out, he gently grasped Barton’s shoulder.

“Hey. The smell really does bother you, doesn’t it?”

A silent nod in response.

Phil gives the man’s shoulder a tender squeeze before his fingers slide down the well muscled bicep until he could hold the man’s elbow and carefully pull him closer.

“C’mere. Turn a bit to your right, please?”

When Clint does, Coulson shifts his body to a better angle before his fingers reached up to brush lightly over the back of the other man’s neck. The archer goes stock still, not even his shoulders moving as he breathed in and out. With a deep inhale, Phil’s fingers set about rubbing and kneading into Barton’s neck and shoulders. Slowly his hands worked their way across the man’s shoulders, pausing to dig a bit harder at some of the more stubborn knots before working their way back up to his neck and just slightly past the man’s hair line. The short hairs on the nape of Barton’s neck were bristly but oh-so-very soft and Phil found himself wanting to feel more of that hair.  
Instead, he brought his hands back down to rub over his neck again.

“Part of the reason people experience headaches is a lack of oxygen to the brain. If you’re more relaxed, the easier it is to take oxygen in, the less likely you are to experience a headache.”

“When did you become a doctor?”

A small smile crept across his face, hands still smoothing over uncurling muscles along the man’s clavicle.

“I’m not. My sister is though.”

His smile spreads when Clint’s chin dips down to his chest, the man’s body slowly starting to relax and unwind. A soft hum escapes the man’s lips when Coulson’s fingers attack a particularly stubborn knot. Dull nails scraped lightly from hairline to shirt collar and back up again and the resulting bitten off moan of approval was enough to make Phil’s whole face light up. It should feel strange and awkward to be engaged in something so intimate and personal as a neck rub but it didn’t; it felt incredibly nice.

“Didn’t know you had a sister…”

“Mm…two.”

“Older?”

“No, younger. I have two older brothers though.”

Clint hummed thoughtfully as Coulson’s nails dragged painfully slow back up his neck and disappeared into the soft confines of his somewhat shaggy hair. He thrilled at the way Barton’s body arched and leaned into his gently, like a wild animal who was gracing a mere human with the honor of being allowed to touch and pet him in such a way. Silently he cursed himself for being just like the other handler’s before him; for taking Barton on as his charge already convinced the man was a bad seed and would be weeded out sooner rather than later. He had always tried to be fair to subordinate agents in the past, yet he realized he had been anything but fair to Clint. 

“What’re their names? Your siblings…”

“Thomas and Michael are my brothers. They’re twins, a year and a half older than me. Natalie is two years younger and Ellie is four years younger.”

Ellie and Phil understood each other better than their other siblings. The novelty of having a son had worn off by the time Phil had been born and it had been difficult being wedged between the first born boys and the first born daughter. When Ellie was born, Phil took it upon himself to take care of her. After all, he understood what it was like to be lost in the hubbub. If and when Phil would go back home to Chicago, it was only because of Ellie.

It was being the dead center middle child that taught Phil how to be quiet and unassuming, to blend into the background and become a skilled observer. It was a skill he put to use on a daily basis at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Later, if anyone asked, they would blame the conversation turning soft and personal on the relaxation and fire glow; certainly not on Coulson’s sudden urge to share childhood memories with the archer in an attempt to make the other feel trusted. Yet there he sat, quietly telling Barton about the hell Tom and Mike would put him through on a regular basis because of his admiration for Captain America (admiration that yes, borderlined obsession); he told of the time Natalie managed to pin him down and force a haircut upon him (one that ended in tears for both him and his sister: him because he had to have his hair shaved crew cut style thanks to Natalie’s unceremonious snips and Natalie because, well, let’s just say it took her a few hours before she was able to sit properly without it stinging). 

The fire continued to flicker in front of them, bouncing its glow around the room and elongating shadows that danced across the floor. Neither of them seemed to notice –or maybe they did and just didn’t care—that they were leaning with their backs against the couch, shoulders and arms pressed together, leaching body heat off the other while Coulson continued to quietly tell of his life before becoming a badass secret government agent.

“I graduated high school when I was seventeen, college four years later with a degree in Criminal Justice,” Coulson’s voice was soft and reflective, his fingers absently stroking along the soft underside of Barton’s left wrist.

“You wanted to be a cop? I can believe that…”

Phil shook his head. “I wanted to make the world a safer place.”

Both remained quiet for a moment as they thought about that. In whatever strange ways they managed it, that was exactly what they were doing. It didn’t always seem to work, some days they would come off one mission only to be handed a case file for a new HYDRA base that needed to be taken down somewhere in the world and it felt like they were in a losing battle. In the end though, in their own small ways, they were making the world a much safer place with each base they took out and every lunatic scientist they put behind bars.

Taking a deep breath, Phil quietly continued. 

“I was a Ranger for four years before I was approached by a new government agency,” He paused, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “well, newly renamed.”

“The Strategic Homeland Interven—“

“Previously known as the Strategic Scientific Reserve. I was recruited by Howard Stark himself. The man was a pioneer before his time.” Phil’s voice faded for a moment, the pause holding a heavier presence to it than the previous break. His blue eyes were focused on the fire in front of them as he thought about being a fresh faced twenty-five year old former Ranger suddenly approached by the man who had a hand in creating his childhood hero and National icon. 

“I was a pallbearer at him and his wife’s funeral. We’ve been keeping tabs on their son Tony ever since.”

The silence settled over them again. The wind continued to billow, the batteries on the radio having given out an hour before while Phil had been talking about his siblings. He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed that Barton was staring at him, orange and yellow light bouncing off the silver frames and along the edges of the lenses. The hesitant brush of fingers over his brought him out of his thoughts and caused him to turn his head in question. When he was met with the most open and curious look he had ever seen on the archer’s face, Phil was taken aback. It was the first time he’d seen the man look so hesitant and even a bit vulnerable. Everything seemed to soften on him. His eyes no longer held the harsh cold of distrust, while his mouth curved ever so slightly at the corners. Barton’s whole body language had shifted at some point, going from blatantly defensive to something more relaxed and befitting of any typical man his age. 

Phil found himself looking between the man’s blue eyes—that were the most fascinating shade of deep blue Coulson had ever seen; an almost teal green flecked in with bits of gold surrounded the man’s pupils…which the most Coulson stared the more blown they seemed to get—down to his lips and back again. He knew he couldn’t do anything, not because of fraternization rules but because it went against his professional work ethic. It _would be_ an abuse of power if he were to close the distance between them and just find out what that mouth was _truly_ capable of doing. 

“Barton…I think that maybe we should—“

Warm, soft lips were suddenly on his, capturing whatever words were still lingering on his tongue and chased them away. Before he had a chance to realize it had even happened, Clint was pulling back, bottom lip sucked between his teeth and eyes searching carefully. Coulson wasn’t sure what they were searching for, but whatever it was must have been good because the next thing he knew those lips were back, pressing harder and dirtier than before. Hands cupped his face as his own clutched and twisted into the soft, worn flannel shirt Barton was still wearing. He felt when the other man’s lips parted and his tongue slipped out to trace and explore against the lines of Phil’s. It didn’t take much convincing for him to open his mouth and allow Clint entrance.

He hadn’t planned for anything to happen; hell he hadn’t even been expecting the kiss, not with how they had started off together. Yes, he had thought about it, but he had never planned for anything to come of those thoughts, especially given how new and sudden they felt to him. Yet there they were, Barton slowly nudging him down onto his back, wedging a knee between his thighs and working his way in until he was pressed against Phil’s groin. And all because he’d made the archer suppress a smile during dinner. If it hadn’t been for him shooting sarcastic remarks back at the man, he never would have seen the tease of a smile and he never would have broken through the walls Clint held so firmly in place around everyone else. 

Hard, hot pressure scraped against his own painful erection and his hips lifted as if on their own accord. Moans and groans mingled with panting breaths while hands roamed above and below shirts. A whole new thrill ran through Phil when his fingers rubbed gently over the flat bare skin of Clint’s stomach before gliding up to rest on the man’s chest, pectoral muscles strong and flexing under his palms. Teeth dragged lightly over his neck, just under his ear and caused his already hard cock to twitch inside his sweats. He knew he should put an end to it before things went any further, before they did something one of them was liable to regret later. Yet when he felt those teeth clamp on at the junction where shoulder met neck, all rhyme or reason went flying out the window.

“God…B-Barton! S-Stop…we…we should…I…s-superior…I’m…”

A near growl escaped Clint’s lips as his tongue flicked and smoothed over the bright red mark that stood out proudly against Coulson’s pale skin. Pulling back just long enough to yank his flannel shirt off and tug Phil’s sweater up under his chin, Barton shook his head before diving down for another bruising kiss.

“All due…respect… _Sir_. S-shut up…”

Where Clint learned to purr/growl like that, Coulson didn’t know. Nor did he care. Especially not when his ear had been captured in those lips and a hand was making short work of his sweat pants. Was it still an abuse of power if they were two consenting adults and his subordinate had been the one to instigate the whole ordeal?

A hand suddenly taking him in a tight hold, he decided maybe the answer to that could wait until after they were finished. Much, much later. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A gentle blanket of white covered the ground. The wind had stopped blowing and snow was no longer falling. Sunlight reflected off the world below, alerting all that a new day had arrived. Not just any new day, but Christmas day. The radio in the kitchen was back to playing joyous holiday music while the TV in the corner flickered with the blurry black and white image of George Bailey running through the streets of Bedford Falls. Warmth had filled the living room even without the help of the fireplace (with a fire long since dead). 

The feel of something warm and heavy pressed against Phil’s body, starting at the middle of his chest and moving the entire length of his body. It was a comfortable pressure, one that brought a wistful, easy smile to the man’s lips and had his fingers curling into soft, thick hair. Clint’s head was rested just off center of Coulson’s chest, his ear and cheek smashed against Phil’s skin right above where his heart beat. His left arm wrapped protectively around his handler’s bare midsection. Coulson could feel the man’s left leg tangled up in and around his right one and the thought of Clint being such a huge closet snugglier was enough to bring a soft chuckle from his lips. 

_CLINT!_

Phil’s eyes instantly snapped open; his heart skyrocketing to his throat as memories of the night before came rushing back to him. They hadn’t done anything past sloppy handjobs/obnoxious rutting against each other, and even sloppier kisses, but it didn’t change the fact that they had most definitely crossed a line Phil had never intended to cross. Ever. Did he regret their actions? No, maybe not so much (it had been amazing to watch the look of pure bliss settle across Clint’s face when the friction become too much for either of them to stand any longer; not to mention a warm, heavy feeling had coiled itself up in Phil’s chest when the archer had sighed contently and nestled himself right against him, head tucked under the agent’s chin when they’d gone to sleep). Did he think that maybe it hadn’t been one of their most spectacular ideas ever? Yeah, just a tiny bit. Not a mistake, mind you! No, he definitely didn’t think it had been a mistake (whether or not Barton did though remained to be seen), but it definitely hadn’t been a good idea. 

Carefully extracting himself from the archer’s near octopus hold on him, Phil tugged the blankets a bit tighter around the man’s shoulders and tucked his discarded sweater under his blond-brown head. He glanced down for a quick check of his pants and after a small readjustment went scurrying up the stairs as fast and as quietly as possible. He had to put some distance between himself and Clin-- _Barton_. He had to think, and redress, and shower. Definitely needed a shower.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Phil slowly made his way back down the stairs some time later. Dressed once again in one of his fine suits, complete with tie and black dress socks, he moved through the living room silently. A new Christmas special had started up on the TV and Phil was rather surprised to find that the blanket, and his sweater, had been folded and placed over the back of the couch nicely. The radio had been turned off and a new sound from the kitchen took its place. 

Stepping into the doorway, he paused to take in the sight before him. Clint stood in front of the sink, still dressed in his too-long-for-his-legs grey sweats but with a faded purple hoodie on instead of his blue flannel from the night before. There seemed to be a tension in the man’s shoulders, one that only appeared to worsen when Coulson stopped his approach and just stood to watch. Something had changed in the time it took for him to get cleaned up and into fresh clothes; the walls had begun to rebuild themselves and he couldn’t help but feel he was partly to blame for that.

With a soft cough to clear his throat, he moved the rest of the way into the kitchen and stepped up next to the sink. 

“You’re doing dishes?” He questioned softly, mild amusement hidden in his voice.

“Yeah well, roads are closed so I figured I’d do something to occupy myself. Doesn’t look like they’re gonna be cleared anytime soon and I kinda get the feeling S.H.I.E.L.D is hoping if they leave us stranded here long enough you’ll do everyone a favor and conveniently “misplace” me in the wilderness with a bullet between my eyes or something. So...” 

There was a deep sadness to Barton’s voice, the sound of a man too used to rejection to appear to care and yet it was obvious it still hurt him deeply. The pain underlying the sniper’s voice was enough to cut into Coulson’s own reserved façade and make his eyebrows knit together ever so slightly. His hand reached out to touch Clint’s shoulder, stopping half way there when he realized the action wouldn’t be taken well. The tension was coiled hard in those strong shoulder muscles Phil had tenderly massaged just the night before.

“Barton...no one--”

 

“Ya know what, save it Coulson. Okay?” 

Phil takes a half a step back when the younger man turned to snap at him. It was, admittedly, a bit hard to take him seriously when his hands and forearms were covered in white bubble suds, but it was the tone and harsh cold that had returned to his blue-green eyes (those perfectly amazing blue-green and gold eyes that Coulson had stared into for longer than he cared to admit the night before). Just as quickly as the cold steal look appeared there though, it faded and was replaced by a carefully calculated and well practiced mask of indifference. The same mask the junior agent had worn the entire five months and eighteen days he had worked under Coulson.

“I know what gets said about me, what people think about me. You’d be amazed how much you hear when people don’t know you’re listening. We’ll get back to HQ, you’ll file your little report about me, storm off to the director and demand I be tossed back into the waiting pool—or just out all together, and that’ll be that. It is what it is. It doesn’t even faze me anymore, so...just save it.” 

The words stuck worse than if he’d been sucker punched in the stomach. And the worst part was, Barton believed it, every word he’d just said, Barton believed without a shadow of a doubt that it was true. They would get back to headquarters and Coulson would just become yet another notch on the wall of agents who had had their fill of the smart-mouthed sniper. 

“Clint, I—“

“Delta base 970, come in Delta base. Do you copy, Delta base?”

Blinking in surprise, Coulson stared at Clint for a moment before moving to a cabinet across the kitchen. All the S.H.I.E.L.D safehouses came equipped with walk-talkies and CB radios (some of the older establishments still with HAM radios), and Phil felt foolish for forgetting that they’d had one available to them all this time. Opening the cupboard door, he sighed at the sight of the walk-talkie. Civilization. 

“This is Delta base 970. Agent Coulson reporting.”

“Cheese! That really you?”

Phil cringed at the old call sign and knew better than to hope Barton hadn’t heard that. A quick glance to his right revealed nothing though. Clint had slipped out of the room as silent as a shadow. Heaving a heavy breath, Agent Coulson slipped back into business mode.

“Agent Fury, you know that it is.”

“Right, glad we finally found you. Everything okay over there? You’re still breathing so that tells me the Hawk didn’t kill you…but doesn’t make me think things boded too well for him. You didn’t toss him to the wolves did you?”

Another cringe, his heart twisting painfully in his chest knowing that if Clint were just in the living room he’d be able to hear every word that was said. _It is amazing what you hear when people don’t know you’re listening…_

“Barton is fine. He’s still alive and quite prepared to make your life a living hell.”

“Not my life, man. Hope you boys like snowmobiling. We’ve got two evacs heading to your location. ETA fifteen minutes. See you back at base, Agent Coulson.” 

“Roger that. Delta base 970 preparing for evac. Over out.”

Putting the walkie-talkie back into the cupboard and closing the door, Phil hurriedly set about cleaning the rest of the kitchen up before stepping out into the living room once again. It came as little of a surprise to him to see Barton perched on the back of the couch, their bags sitting in wait by the door. Gone where his glasses, no doubt hidden safe away in a secret pocket only he knew of, and back was the ‘fuck off and die’ attitude. 

Phil steeled himself as he stepped in front of Clint, putting himself into the man’s personal space. Hands braced on either side of the archer’s hips, he stared intently at the man. 

“I would like to make one thing perfectly clear, Specialist. I don’t make it a habit of tossing valuable assets back into the drink or out onto the street. I was the middle child of five, I learned to hold onto my things and not give them up for any reason. No amount of bullying or attitude is going to change my mind about that. The only thing that could possibly change my mind would be for me to sign you off to another capable agent so that I could then ask you to go for coffee with me. Though as you aren’t one who takes to rules well to begin with, me handing you off to someone else just for my own selfish reasons would be a foolish thing to do, and I should just take you for coffee anyways. Unless the actions of last night meant relatively nothing to you and you’d rather we forget they ever took place.” 

Clint looked absolutely dumbstruck, his mouth hanging slightly open as he stared back at Coulson. It was obvious from that close that the sniper’s eyes were struggling to focus and not go crossed. Right, farsighted. Taking a step back, but still staying in Clint’s space, Phil let his arms hang at his sides nonthreatening while Clint shook his head.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled then.” Giving a nod, Coulson took a full step back and moved for his bags, glad to see that Clint had set his shoes on top. Pulling them from the bag, he leaned against the wall to pull them on.

“Why don’t you then? Ask me to go get coffee with you, I mean.”

The corners of his mouth tugging up in a faint smile, Phil looked back over his shoulder and let his gaze linger for just a moment longer than strictly professional. 

“Maybe I will, Agent Barton.”

**Author's Note:**

> For Feelstide 2012 prompt #107: Phil and Clint get caught in a blizzard and are forced to spend Christmas together in a small cabin where in true Hallmark/Lifetime channel fashion, they find themselves falling in love.


End file.
